


Bail Me Out

by bell (bellaboo), bellaboo, usomitai (bellaboo)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-29
Updated: 2006-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:39:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bellaboo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/usomitai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, Wilson needs House. Taken from the prompt "House gets an urgent call from Wilson, who asks him to come bail him out of trouble - and jail."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bail Me Out

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to [](http:)Leiascullary for having made a couple of suggestions. Also, I’d like to say that I picked this theme and wrote most of the fic _before_ I ever heard of Tritter. Takes place before season 2.

House had to admit: he liked Cuddy better when she was unbuttoning her blouse.

“Oh, it’s just _so_ awful,” she purred, running a hand over her chest. “I have no idea what the matter is with me, doctor.”

“That’s what I’m here for. You can count on me. What’s your problem?”

“It’s like this—“ and suddenly a loud ringing came out from her mouth.

“I—I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before. Can you do it again?”

She did, right on cue, ringing like a phone demanding to be picked up.

“How long has this been happening to you?”

Instead of answering, she rang again.

This was disturbing. Not to mention intriguing. “Do that again,” he said, picking up his stethoscope, “I want to hear it close up this time.”

His eyes, which he had _thought_ were already open, opened. It was dark and he didn’t think this was the clinic. For one thing, he was lying down in what felt like his bed, which was nowhere to be found in the hospital (though he did like the idea), especially not in any of the clinic rooms. In fact, this place downright resembled his bedroom, now that the darkness was settling into vague shapes.

And the ringing hadn’t stopped.

Moving more by learned behavior than actual conscious thought, House groped about his nightstand and eventually located a vibrating object. He held it to his ear, heard nothing but more ringing—which was becoming increasingly ear-shattering by the second—and remembered that technology had complicated things. He pressed a button and, at long last, the noise stopped. “Mwwah?” he asked.

“Were you _ever_ going to pick up?”

Wilson. An irate Wilson, by the sound of it. “What time is it?”

“Three, I think. Look, it doesn’t matter. I—you—I“

He winced. “You _better_ not have called at three a.m. just to stutter pronouns at me.”

“I—you need to pick me up.”

“I need to sleep, that’s what I need.”

“House. I’mkindainjailandIneedyoutopaybail.”

For the first time since his sweet, sweet dream about Cuddy asking him to play doctor had been ripped out of his clutches, House was in a good mood. He laughed. “Good one!” It might have been worth being woken up just for this.

“This isn’t a joke!”

“Yeah, right, it isn’t. Look, it’s been funny, but my pillow wants my company back.”

“I—please don’t make me say it again. I really am in jail.”

“Prove it.”

“What, you want me to tell you about how I got the friendly prison welcome when I bent over to pick up my soap? I don’t have much time—they’re telling me to hang up—“ House heard another voice in the background, a voice too gruff to be Julie’s. “I’m at the Princeton-Plainsboro Police Station. Get me out of here.”

“I’ll be right over,” House promised, “you can count on me.” He then hung up, rolled over, and promptly fell back asleep.

****

“You, my friend,” House said, extending a Starbucks cup, “have seen better days.”

Wilson glared at him but still took the cup. “Maybe I’d be fresher if you hadn’t taken over _six_ hours to come.” He lifted the lid, peered to look into the contents, and sniffed.

“Relax, it’s the real stuff. It’d be too much trouble to warm up mud the right color and consistency to resemble coffee.”

He tried a sip. “…It’s not decaf.”

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it’s the thought that counts? And, anyway, I think there’s a law that if you walking out of jail you’re not allowed to be picky. Break that and you’ll have to go back in there.”

Wilson really had seen better days. His hair was flat with a greasy sheen, as if he’d spent the night hanging out in a MacDonald’s kitchen, and his face looked like it had acquired new wrinkles overnight. His shirt, which House remembered him having worn the previous day, was now more off-white than it was yesterday. There were all sorts of smells coming off him, from vomit to alcohol. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Wow. Talk about ingratitude.” House pretended to be offended.

“Just get me to work. Please.”

“Glad that’s where you wanna go, ‘cause that’s where I’m headed.”

House made another few jokes and attempts at conversation on the way to the car, but Wilson met them all with silence, clutching at the cup. It occurred to House, as Wilson buckled down and rolled down all the windows, to ask: “Don’t you have anything to pick up? Your car, for example?”

“My car was impounded and they gave me everything else back already.” Wilson sipped his unwanted coffee, staring straight ahead. It had to be cold by now.

“Ah.” Normally he didn’t feel mind silence, especially not around Wilson, but he did when it was as awkward as this. He turned the key and the ignition provided a comfortable background noise. “So how did you find yourself in the slammer?”

Wilson shook his head.

Damn it. The direct approach wasn’t going to work.

“I thought about sending one of my minions to get you,” House threw out.

“Surprised you didn’t. I half expected Chase to show up.”

“By the time I woke up it made more sense to go pick you up myself. It’s practically on the way to the hospital, did you know?”

“I do now,” Wilson replied dryly. “Is that why you took so long? Because you were _sleeping_?”

“Sleep is important! Research has revealed that without it—“

“I spent all of today in a room full of seedy men covered in body art and piercings because you couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed. I don’t want to hear it.”

“You should have known than better to call me,” House complained. He glanced over at Wilson. He had reclined the chair as far back as it could go, eyes closed, and laid his hands over his stomach. The more he looked at Wilson, the worse he looked. There were all sorts of details to pick up, like the black smudges along his right sleeve and the wrinkles of his slacks. That last part was particularly scary. He kind of assumed that Wilson’s clothes were incapable of wrinkling themselves. “I don’t think work is the best place for you right now.”

“Can’t go back home,” he muttered, “not like this. And I called you because the only other number I have memorized is mine. Speaking of which—“ Wilson dug into his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and flipped it open. “Six times,” he sighed, “she must be furious.” He made a call, waited a bit. “Honey? Yeah, I’m sorry-- I saw that you called. What happened was that I had to work a little late, and then I was so beat that I ended up sleeping in my office. The ringer was off, since I was talking to patients and I forgot to turn it back on—sorry. I know you must have been worried. Yeah, I’ll be home for dinner. Love you.”

“Lying,” House observed, “the basis of all healthy relationships.”

Wilson just closed his eyes again. House took the cue and shut up.

It wasn’t until they reached the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital parking lot that either one of them spoke again. “I know it’s pointless to ask,” Wilson commented, “but please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“The hospital has rights to your criminal records—“

“Criminal—“ Wilson shuddered. “Yes, they do, and I’ll tell Cuddy. But it doesn’t need to become gossip.”

“But Foreman’s never been in jail, think of what an impression you could make on him. Be his role model! Satisfy his curiosity-- let him know why he never wants end up on the wrong side of the law. Now that he’s no longer a minor, anyway.” Wilson sighed. “You can’t honestly believe that you can walk in like you are and expect no one to think something happened.”

Wilson looked down at himself. “Is it obvious?”

“You stink, your clothes stink, and you look like an ambulance ran you over. It’s obvious.”

For the first time that morning, Wilson cracked a smile. It was weak but better than nothing. “Thanks.”

“I’ll walk in first—I know how to drum up a real good distraction. I could do my bit about the food being soylent green, that’s a classic. Then you can sneak in and break for the closest set of showers! No one will ever know!”

That noise Wilson made might have been a chuckle. “Setting the hospital on fire might take less effort and have the same effect.”

“Now there’s an idea. It’d get me out of clinic duty, too.”

This time Wilson actually laughed, which was far less annoying than the poor-me routine was. But he sobered up quickly. “There’s no way I can go inside like this.”

“But the spare change of clothes might do the trick. You’ll—“

“You brought spare clothes? Where did you even get them?”

“They’re leftovers from when you used to baby-sit me after the operation. Don’t get your hopes up—don’t know if they’ll fit and they definitely don’t match. Anyway, as I was saying before you _oh_ so rudely interrupted me, you’ll still have to shower, but anyone who gets a whiff of you will think some teetoler upchucked in the hallway. It happens often enough.”

Wilson was gobsmacked. “Since when—“

“No, no, no thanks are necessary. It’s what any buddy would do for a friend in need. Just like paying hundreds of dollars in bail, why, that I paid without second thought. ‘If it’s for Jimmy,’ I said to myself, ‘no price is too high!’” Wilson was grinning. “Even if he woke me up from possibly the best dream of my life, even if I had to wait in line with yuppies all _around me_ to get him a good cup of coffee he hates, why, he is more than worth all that.”

“Careful there, House, or I’ll start to expect generosity from you.”

“After all I did and _am_ going to do for you—why, I’ll have to lie to my precious colleagues, oh, how my sense of moral will be compromised!—the least I deserve is to know what you were doing in jail at three in the morning.”

All mirth drained out of Wilson. “Do I have to?”

“You know I’ll terrorize you until you spit it out. I’m not going to be this good to you for much longer.”

“You have a point. All right.” Wilson sighed.

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?”

“Sighing! Feeling sorry for yourself! It’s infuriating. You were in jail, you can’t be honest with your wife, and you can’t count on your best friend. Your life sucks. We get it. Get over it.”

“I… suddenly don’t feel like telling you anymore.”

“What I said still stands. It’s either now or unceasing bugging ‘till you tell me. And _don’t_ sigh.”

Wilson grimaced instead. “I apparently caused a public disturbance.”

“Apparently? No, wait, _public disturbance_?” Wilson kept his mouth shut as though he had said everything he needed to. “You know that anything I imagine will be a thousand times worse than what actually happened.”

“Maybe I prefer it that way.”

“Maybe I _will_ tell the whole hospital my version.”

“God, House—“ Wilson hunched over, leaning on the dash board. “I don’t remember what happened. I went out for a drink, ended up drunk, and the next thing I know I’m in a cell. Something about a fight—I haven’t had the courage to read the police’s report yet.”

“Dr. James J. Wilson! Why! I might have underestimated you!”

“And I think I overestimated myself.”

“Any particular reason why you got smashed?”

“…Kristin called.”

“Kristin wife number two?”

“Kristin, my second wife, called. She had a baby. A boy, seven and three ounces. Ten fingers, ten toes. She thought I should know.”

“Yeah,” House reflected, “I hate it when my exes move on with their lives. And you couldn’t tell wife number three that you were rioting over wife number two’s spawn. It makes sense.” He leaned back, almost fully satisfied. “There’s still one thing I don’t get, though.”

“What?”

“Why would I dream about Cuddy calling me ‘doctor’? I hate being called that.”

“_What_?”

“Never mind.”

****

Author’s notes: I had been researching a name for the prison that Wilson ended up in, but then 3.06 Que Sera Sera aired. When Wilson goes to pick House up from jail, the building had two signs: one over its door saying “Police Station” and the other, on the front lawn, reading “Princeton-Plainsboro Municipal Building.” I didn’t think either was an appropriate name. So I decided that the lovely town of Princeton-Plainsboro must have only one police station. Hence the name I picked.


End file.
